


All Your Eloquence

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:17:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5618005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He’s gotten worse, hasn’t he?” Enjolras kept his voice low. While all present were familiar with Combeferre’s anxious tendencies, he preferred to protect his friend’s dignity by keeping the matter quiet. </p><p>Courfeyrac nodded, “I thought he was improving yesterday. Now it seems quite the opposite, and I am swiftly running out of ideas.” </p><p>“He can’t be persuaded to put aside his work?” </p><p>“No. I don’t think he’s been sleeping. You can see the shadows under his eyes from across the room!” Courfeyrac sighed, “He shouldn’t be here, but I can’t think of a way to convince him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Your Eloquence

“But listen to me first and swear an oath to use all your eloquence and strength to look after me and protect me”

— Homer, _The Iliad_

* * *

“Enjolras?”  
  
He looked up from the pamphlet he was drafting and offered a small smile, “Ah, forgive me, Feuilly. You had wanted to discuss something earlier and I was distracted.”  
  
Feuilly fidgeted, wringing his hat in his hands, “That’s not actually…” he cast a glance across the room, but quickly returned his gaze, “I’m concerned about Combeferre.”  
  
Immediately, Enjolras turned in his chair to look. The medical student was in the same place he had been all afternoon — hunched over a mess of papers, scratching away with his pen. He had his back to them, but it was clear that he was deeply engaged with whatever he was writing. Nothing appeared amiss, as far as Enjolras could tell from a distance.  
  
“He’s not quite himself,” Feuilly continued, pulling out a chair for himself. “I don’t mean to overstep…”  
  
Enjolras shook his head, forcing himself to return his attention to the man in front of him, “Not at all, go on.”  
  
“You’re much closer to him than I am, but I’ve never seen him so…” he hesitated, “so unsettled.”  
  
“He suffers the occasional attack of nerves,” Enjolras reminded him. It wasn’t unknown to his lieutenants, even if they never spoke of it.  
  
Feuilly nodded, “I have seen, yes. And I know that Courfeyrac can usually calm him, but Combeferre didn’t even seem to hear him earlier when he tried to draw him into conversation.”  
  
Again, Enjolras looked across the room, and this time noted that Combeferre’s hand was in his hair, gripping it like a life line. Was he trembling? It was impossible to tell from so far away. Enjolras turned back to Feuilly, “I will look after him. Thank you.” He was halfway out of his chair before he thought to add, “Was there something else, or—“  
  
“It can wait. We’ll speak another time,” Feuilly waved him away.  
  
Excusing himself, Enjolras left to seek out Courfeyrac. He could tell at a glance that the other man was equally concerned. Courfeyrac was pretending to observe a game of cards between Joly and Bossuet, but his entire attention was on Combeferre.  
  
“He’s gotten worse, hasn’t he?” Enjolras kept his voice low. While all present were familiar with Combeferre’s anxious tendencies, he preferred to protect his friend’s dignity by keeping the matter quiet.  
  
Courfeyrac nodded, “I thought he was improving yesterday. Now it seems quite the opposite, and I am swiftly running out of ideas.”  
  
“He can’t be persuaded to put aside his work?”  
  
“No. I don’t think he’s been sleeping. You can see the shadows under his eyes from across the room!” Courfeyrac sighed, “He shouldn’t be here, but I can’t think of a way to convince him.”  
  
Joly rose from his seat, startling both of them. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but perhaps I could speak with him? I believe I might be able to make him see reason.”  
  
Enjolras blinked, surprised by Joly’s calm. There wasn’t a hint of the man’s usual panic over whatever maladies he imagined from day to day. He looked to Courfeyrac, finding equal parts surprise and resignation in the other man’s gaze. This was clearly beyond either of them. He nodded his assent.  
  
“Be ready to depart. Best not give him a chance to rethink things once he’s agreed to go home and rest,” Joly said, before making his way over to Combeferre’s table. Courfeyrac disappeared to gather their coats and hats. Enjolras remained.  
  
Joly took a seat across from Combeferre, but spoke so quietly that Enjolras found he could not make out a single word. Whatever was said was effective, for Combeferre looked up from his writing almost immediately. A moment later he set his pen down. His free hand remained in his hair, but didn’t pull or grip quite so tightly as before. He responded to Joly just as quietly as he had been addressed.  
  
Enjolras didn’t take his eyes from the pair as Courfeyrac handed him his coat. Joly reached across the table to touch Combeferre’s hand. The frazzled student pulled away and drew his other hand out of his hair. There was a long moment in which neither man spoke. Combeferre picked at the skin of his left hand, and Enjolras recognized the far-away stare in his eyes as he struggled to make a decision. Joly simply waited, unmoving.  
  
Finally, Combeferre nodded. Joly turned to look for Courfeyrac, who stepped away to make their excuses. Enjolras brought Combeferre his coat, never taking his eyes from his friend’s face. As he helped him into the garment, he saw the faint sheen of sweat across his forehead, and the hint of fever in his cheeks. The deep shadows beneath his eyes were as bad as Courfeyrac had described.  
  
“Let’s get you home,” he murmured, pressing Combeferre’s hat into his hands.  
  
The shorter man’s eyes drifted, “You needn’t leave with me. I will manage on my own.”  
  
Firmly, but gently, Enjolras took his arm, “Forgive me if I don’t believe you. Besides, Courfeyrac has already made our farewells.”  
  
Combeferre forced a smile, but still did not meet his gaze.  
  
The walk back to Combeferre’s lodgings was a quiet one. Courfeyrac made a few attempts at conversation, but Combeferre only offered the occasional short response. Enjolras did not press the matter. While he didn’t claim to understand half of what went on in Combeferre’s mind, he knew enough to understand when silence less distressing to him than conversation.  
  
“I will manage from here,” Combeferre said, pulling out his key.  
  
“Ferre,” Enjolras began, but Courfeyrac cut him off.  
  
“Just because you can manage alone doesn’t mean you need to,” he said. “There’s no shame in wanting company when you’re unwell.”  
  
Combeferre looked away to unlock the door, but Enjolras spotted the guilty look on his face all the same.  
  
“You are not a bother, don’t even think it,” Enjolras warned as they shed outer coats and hats. “How many nights have you spent looking after me because I’ve ignored meals and neglected to sleep?” He pressed a hand to Combeferre’s shoulder, “We are only doing as you would for either of us.”  
  
This seemed to soothe some of his worry, for the corners of his mouth twitched into a hint of a smile. He nodded.  
  
“Ready yourself for bed,” Enjolras urged. “I will make tea.”  
  
 With a noticeable hesitation, Combeferre disappeared into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Courfeyrac began rifling through his cupboards while Enjolras sought out the kettle.  
  
“His pantry is as exhausted as he is,” Courfeyrac sighed, and reached for his hat anew. “I’ll go and fetch something if you think you can manage without me for a time.”  
  
Enjolras nodded, “Go. I’ll see if I can’t get him to sleep.” He sat down to await the kettle as Courfeyrac left. He looked around the room, noticing the meticulous way everything had been arranged and cleaned. It looked nothing like the way he knew Combeferre’s rooms to be most of the time. Gone were the piles of books and notes, and there was no sign of the half-dozen candle remnants that usually took up residence on table and mantle and windowsill. He had only seen Combeferre’s rooms this clean once before, and that was the day he had moved in.  
  
With a steaming cup of tea in hand, Enjolras knocked on the bedroom door. There was no response. Slowly, he opened the door, but did not find Combeferre to be asleep, as he had hoped. While the medical student had discarded his waistcoat and trousers in favor of a nightshirt, he was seated at his desk, and once again invested in his work.  
  
Enjolras crossed the room and set the tea down on a rare empty place on the desk, “You are as bad as I am. You don’t take your own advice.”  
  
Combeferre rubbed at his eyes, “It’s not for lack of trying.”  
  
“You’re not likely to find sleep at your desk, Ferre.”  
  
“Nor will I find it in my bed,” he sipped at the tea, and picked absently at the skin of his hands.  
  
Enjolras reached out to smooth the hair from his forehead, hand lingering at the warmth he felt there. Combeferre’s eyes closed at the touch, and he breathed deeply.  
  
“I will stay.”  
  
“I fear it will make no difference,” Combeferre mumbled, opening his eyes and turning back to his tea.  
  
“Sleep will come in its own time,” Enjolras rose and turned down the bedcovers.  
  
“I cannot sleep,” Combeferre protested, draining the last of the tea. “My mind does not stop. My thoughts run wild…”  
  
“Then don’t sleep, but you must rest. You’re no good to any of us like this.”  
  
At this, Combeferre finally relented. Enjolras didn’t miss the discomfort in his friend’s face as he settled himself beneath the blankets. He looked about the room for some idea of how to calm him. His gaze settled on the bookshelf.    
  
“If I read to you, would it quiet your mind?” Combeferre had done the same for him on countless occasions.  
  
“Perhaps.”  
  
He looked to the pile of books atop Combeferre’s desk. There was nothing to be found among the medical texts that wouldn’t inspire further anxiety. His returned to the bookshelf, wondering if his friend even owned a book that wasn’t scientific or absurdly complex in nature. He found a neglected volume that was almost lost among the rest.  
  
“The Iliad?”  
  
“A gift from my sisters.”  
  
It would have to do. Enjolras contemplated the desk chair for only a moment before bending to remove his boots. Combeferre shifted to make room in the bed, and readily curled up against his side once he was beneath the covers. Enjolras wrapped an arm around him and settled the book between them.  
  
_“Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans…”_  


* * *

  
  
_“Now the other gods and the armed warriors—”_  
  
The door opened, and Enjolras looked up to see Courfeyrac smiling at him.  
  
“How is he?”  
  
Enjolras looked fondly to the man curled up against his side. Somewhere in the midst of his reading, he’d felt the tension slip away little by little. Before long, his breathing had evened out, and his eyes slid closed. Combeferre was well and truly asleep. Fearful of waking him, Enjolras had continued reading. He looked back to Courfeyrac, “Better.”  
  
“There’s bread and cheese inside for when he wakes,” Courfeyrac shut the door behind him, already unbuttoning his waistcoat. He climbed across the pair to sit on Combeferre’s other side, and pried the book from Enjolras’s hands.  
  
“Sleep. You aren’t going anywhere for a while.”  
  
He gave no protest, and settled himself more comfortably. They would deal with whatever demons were plaguing their friend’s mind later. For now, they would guard Combeferre as he slept, and keep his mind quiet long enough for him to recover some of his strength.  
  
_“Now the other gods and the armed warriors on the plain slept soundly, but Zeus was wakeful…”_

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I’ve been able to find, there was a French translation of the Iliad in print during the time period in question, but for ease of readability, I have used the English translation by Samuel Butler. The quote for the title is from another translation, but I cannot, for the life of me, figure out which one.


End file.
